Timothy 02: Tim2 (28 page)

“Just kill me. I’ll never lead you to them.”

I slammed him on the side of the head with the butt of my gun. He fell to his knees. I kneed him in the nose, blood gushed from his shattered proboscis. He fell over to the side cupping his hands over his wounded facial feature.

“What about now?” I asked leaning down.

He shook his head. I kicked him so hard in the nuts it was long minutes before he stopped retching. A pool of sweet water lay by his face, his shattered nose all but forgotten as he protectively covered his damaged jewels.

“That do any convincing?”

I didn’t give him an opportunity to respond as I kicked him in his spine. He howled in pain from the contact. It unfurled his fetal position, he was writhing in agony, not sure where to cover up next.

“Are they worth it?” I asked, leaning over and whispering in his ear.

I licked up the water that was running from his eyes, then I flicked my tongue to drink in some of the blood and snot coming from his nose.  “Delicious,” I sighed, my eyes half closing as I basked in his taste.

“Pl-pl-please,” he finally managed to get out.

“Come on, man, you know how this is going to go down. You either give them all up and die in a little while. Or you die now, well, I mean after a thorough beating that is.”

I started humming the tune to
Jeopardy
as I awaited his response. By the time I got to the end of the little ditty he still had not responded. I rolled him over onto his back and dropped down onto my knees while simultaneously bringing my fist into his nose. The grinding crunch as I drove soft cartilage into delicate facial bones was quite satisfying. I ground my fist around for added effect. His legs were kicking about wildly as he screamed in pain – at least as loudly as he could with the blood choking his throat.

I stayed there for a while with my knees on his chest, pounding at his face and neck. He had long since passed out. His wife was suffering from a mild headache in comparison to what I was doing to him. I had broken so many bones in his face that his features were beginning to shift.

“Looking a little like Pangaea there, buddy, everything is adrift! I love being witty,” I told him.

He, however, feigned oblivion and didn’t respond. He was breathing, I could tell by the air bubbles that formed in his bloody spit. I rolled him onto his side so he wouldn’t choke on it, nice guy that I am – I should get a fucking medal.

Hugh startled me out of my momentary mind medal ceremony. “Eat?” he asked.

“Look at you you’re getting manners. Yeah, we’ll eat.”

I was pushing around on Mr. Speight, figuring out where I wanted to start my dining experience when another brilliant, if I dare say, thought came to mind. I laid it out to Hugh. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as I had hoped, but he was a zombie; they were all about the here and now, not future promises and payouts. After some serous cajoling and threatening, I think I got my point across. I pulled down Speight’s pants and took hardly a nibble from his thigh. Someone would be hard-pressed to find the wound. Hardly anything bigger than a virus would be able to find its way through the opening.

I dragged Speight over to a chair and deposited him in there.

“Oh, man, he looks like shit. You’d better have your buddies fix him up,” I said as I sat across from the man.

I wondered if possibly Yorley would eventually come looking for him; I’d deal with that if the time came. It wasn’t long before I saw blood stop flowing from his mouth and his nose began to pull back from its position where it was lying flat against the left side of his face to a more proper area. Even the small cut and bruise I had made on his forehead were clearing up.

“Well, you’re modeling days are over,” I told him as I gripped his healing face in my hands and twisted it back and forth, looking at Other Hugh’s handiwork. “But your wife will probably still love you. If she ever did.”

He was beginning to come to. “What happened?” he asked, smacking my hand away. His eyes going wide when he pieced everything together and realized he was looking at me.

“I’m sorry, man,” I told him. I stepped back. “I found God or some shit while you were dying on the floor. I prayed and prayed for your recovery…and look, man, he delivered. It’s a miracle. Hallelujah!” I said while doing the ‘jazz hands’ thing above my head.

I wasn’t super convincing and Speight was picking up on it.

“Look I’m not a good guy and I’m in a bad situation. I did something wrong, and I just want to get out of here and let you get back to your family.”

“What?”

“Go, man, just go back to them.”

He stood, he might be shocked and slightly dazed, but he wasn’t stupid. “You’re serious?”

“Get out of here, man,” I told him, thrusting my thumb over my shoulder towards the back door. “Oh yeah…tell Yorley that Timothy says hi!”

I heard him twist on the broken glass to look back at me to see if I was following. When he realized I wasn’t, he cruised. I smiled widely. “Gonna have some fine dining today, my little buddy.”

I stood up when I heard the now familiar metal clanking. There was a moment of confusion as I looked out into the back yard for the shelter’s entrance. All that stood in the yard was a small utility shed and a doghouse, neither of which were large enough to house five people for any longer than it took to retrieve a weed whacker. The doghouse was big as far as dog houses go, so maybe a Rottweiler would be happy with it, but not three adults and two kids.

“What the hell?” I asked, scratching my face. It had been itching a lot the last few days. I attributed it to dry skin. “I guess it’s the shed. Really shouldn’t have taken my eyes off of him, didn’t know he was going to pull a Houdini.”

The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. I wouldn’t mind being that close to my little Yorley. I crossed the yard carefully, staying out of sight of the decorative window on the right. I yanked open one of the doors and dodged to the side expecting a hail of bullets. Nothing; not even the clamoring to make sure a gun safety was off. I got in close to the side of the structure and quickly peeked my head around. I pulled back quickly, taking a mental picture as I did so.

There was nothing, I mean except for some basic gardening equipment. “What the hell?” I asked, once again poking my head around, this time taking an extended look.

When I was confident no one was going to blow my head off I walked around and in. I was pissed off and swatted a hoe out of my way. Then I started laughing. “Now I’m a pimp!” I said merrily. (Wait for it...wait for it, it’ll come. I figured you’d get it.) “Okay, there has to be a secret entrance.”

I checked around the whole floor, which wasn’t tough considering it was only about a ten-by-ten structure.

No trap door. The only anomaly was a pipe roughly six inches in diameter that came up through the floor and halfway up the wall; a large box was fitted over the top capping it off. I touched the pipe and quickly pulled my hand back; it was hot to the touch. I still hadn’t a clue what the hell was going on. I reached up and tentatively touched the capping box. It was warm, but not overly so. I twisted it around and then straight up. It came off followed by a cloud of exhaust fumes.

“Fuck,” I said, placing what I figured to be a filter back over the pipe.

Part of my problem had been solved – the bunker was underground. Now to find the entrance. The only other place in the small yard it could be was the doghouse. Well this might be one time where if a husband got his ass in trouble he might not mind having to sleep with Rover. I did a quick 360 of the yard looking for any signs that someone might be trying to end my life. When I was mostly satisfied, I headed over to the dog’s abode. I poked my head in and felt around. Nothing, no trap door nothing except the wood my hand was on.

“Fucking great,” I said, standing up. “Got the entire apocalypse and I come across a
magician.”

I walked around the doghouse. It was during the second trip that I noticed something. “Why, you tricky bastard,” I said as I noticed hinges located on the bottom, rear of the house.

The whole doghouse was a trap door. I grabbed the roofline from the side and heaved it up. I jumped back expecting someone to start blasting away. Again I was rewarded with silence. I inched closer. The opening was framed out in wooden studs, which encased a set of five concrete steps that descended onto a small landing. Immediately to the right at the bottom of the stairs was a door that looked like it would have been comfortable in any major metropolitan bank protecting folks’ investments and jewels.

“What a dumb ass,” I said thinking of Mr. Speight leaving the sanctuary of that fortress for a six-pack of beer.

Harold Speight’s head was splintering as he ran from the mad man in his living room. He moved quickly to the house of an animal he never owned, lifted it up and rapidly descended the small staircase. He placed his thumb over the fingerprint identifier and punched in his five digit code, nearly messing up a number he had ingrained in his head considering it was his anniversary date: 1-1-5-9-2, January 15th 1992. The miscue would have cost him an automatic fifteen-minute lockout mode, which he didn’t think he could take right now. As it was, he was barely holding on to the tide of panic, which was rendering his structured world into the abyss of chaos. The man with the melting face had scared him more than he could ever express in words. He felt normalcy shedding off of him like thick coats of paint under a heavy application of mineral spirits.

If he locked himself out, he would have to bang on the door and hope someone inside heard him so that they could activate the manual override before the evil clown located the source of the noise and stole his soul. For that’s what the thing was, a demon of some sort sprung loose from its moorings in the depths of hell by the actions of a callous mankind. Harold had an idea the thing had only been toying with him when it released him. He wouldn’t feel safe even if he got inside the bunker. What sort of barrier was steel and concrete to a demon? He thought of the safety of his family even as the door swung open and he stepped in, quickly sealing it behind him. He more than half expected to be greeted by the demon named Timothy holding the surplus shredded strips of his wife and children in his bloody hands. Instead, it was the concerned look of his wife’s new friend Yorley.

“Where have you been?” she accused him, rifle nearly at the ready.

Harold was shaking so deeply from his core that it had spread to his extremities. His arms and hands quaked madly.

“What’s the matter with you?” Yorley asked, almost advancing. He seemed on the verge of collapse, but she was unsure why; and if he was infected she was going to put a bullet in his head no matter who he was related to. “You look like shit, have you been bitten?”

“No nothing like that,” Harold said as he sank down to the floor, his back against the cool steel wall. He buried his head in his palsied hands.

“What happened then?” she asked, not yet letting her guard down.

“How’s Scarlett?” He looked up at Yorley. His black-rimmed eyes appeared even more sunk in from the shelter’s night-lights.

“She’s still out,” Yorley answered.

“The kids?” he asked in a desperate anxiety, his head shaking from the effort.

“They’re fine. What is going on?” she asked again. His trepidation was infectious and she was beginning to feel nervous herself.

“There was...”

What?
he thought.
Do I tell her demon? She already looks like she wants to shoot me, maybe it would be for the best. I already feel like my soul is tied to the spawn. If I’m dead he won’t be able to come in here.
Those thoughts ran through his head before he completed his sentence to Yorley with, “man.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“He...he beat the shit out of me, Yorley.”

Yorley looked him over, true he looked like shit but not like he had suffered a vicious beating. She had only known the man for twenty-four hours, but he hadn’t seemed like the type to have a propensity for drama.

“What did he look like? Did he see you come in here?” she asked, looking at a small scar on his forehead.

Harold grabbed her arm, pulled her close, making sure that her eyes were locked on his. “Its face was melting.” He exhaled sourly and a putrid smell of decay issued from his mouth.

Yorley yanked herself away from him, some from the odor, but mostly from his description. 

“You don’t believe me?” he asked with desperation in his eyes. He began to sob and then laugh. “His face was melting and he was dressed like a...”

“Clown,” Yorley said, finishing his sentence.

The laughing sobs came to an immediate halt.

“He’s here? How is that possible?” Yorley asked, the question not really directed at Harold. She ran to the door to make sure it was shut and locked. “What’d he say?” She came back to Harold who had managed to prop himself up into a normal sitting position.

“He said he knew Scarlett and you, that you two had a history. He told me to tell you that ‘Timothy says hi.’”

Yorley staggered. “He was the one at the grocery store I told you about,” she responded, looking over her shoulder at the door as if it could suddenly open on its own.

“You didn’t say anything about a melting face and a clown get-up.”

“I hardly believed it myself. It was something I wanted to forget forever. I got your wife home and I wanted to just chalk it up to some random madman encounter.”

“That madman is here now, Yorley!” he shouted, spittle shooting from his mouth. He said it as if it were her fault.

“How is this even possible?”

“He must have followed your ass here! My wife and children are in danger because of you!” His words were forceful, but he had not yet stood to deliver them.

“Your wife would be dead if it wasn’t for me, so shut your damn mouth!” she yelled at him.

“Children, children,” came the chastising, muffled sound of a voice through the four-inch thick door. Yorley froze; Harold started scooting back deeper into the chamber. “I hate to see you guys fighting like this, open the door and we can sort all of it out,” Timothy said mirthfully.

“Can he get through there?” Yorley asked, backing up herself.

“He’s a demon…I’m sure he can do whatever he wants,” Harold said, once again placing his head between his knees and covering it up with his hands.

Yorley was half-convinced to believe Harold. “I shot him, he bleeds, so he’s no fucking demon.”

“Demons don’t bleed?” Harold asked, grasping at the only straw he could.

She honestly wasn’t sure now that he had posed the question.

They waited a few more minutes for Tim to say something. When he didn’t, Yorley asked another question. “Why did he let you go?”

“He wanted to know where you and Scarlett were, when I wouldn’t tell him he beat me mercilessly.”

Again with the
overreaction
, Yorley thought.
But he seems sincere when he says it
.

“He broke some stuff, even shoved a gun in my mouth. When I wouldn’t tell him, he beat me until I passed out. When I awoke he told me he had had a change of heart.”

“Just like that?” Yorley questioned.

“What can I say? I found God,” Tim shouted through the door with a laugh.

“He can’t possibly hear us,” Yorley whispered. She and Harold left the antechamber and retreated into the living portion of the shelter.